An American Warlock in Harry Potter's Court
by Fanofallthethings
Summary: What's it sound like? Pseudo-self insert.


**A/N: Yeah, I'm basically just starting new things that I might work on at some point now. Cause why not, right? And no, I couldn't come up with a better way to set this up. You'll see what I mean.**

**Chapter One - Well That Was Unexpected**

I was pretty damn certain I was dead. Getting shot in the head with a shotgun generally does the job pretty well, since in my experience said head normally is turned into paste. All that explains why I was _really fucking_ confused as to why I was sitting in a room in my street clothes. First, I had been wearing my CIA-issue tactical gear when I was pretty sure I died. Made sense, since I was running an op in fucking Kabul, not exactly friendly territory for an American spy. But now my dark T-shirt, jeans, and tac vest had been replaced with my favorite shirt, a Warrior XII shirt with a Templar on the back, and a pair of blue jeans. Even my shoes had changed, from nylon upper combat boots to a pair of light sneakers.

Even weirder was the room I was in. First off, the temperature was pleasant, which let me tell you just did not happen in Afghanistan. Whole fucking country was a blazing hot shithole, even if you were indoors with modern A/C. The room itself was an anomaly as well. Small but well-appointed, I sat on a comfortable, cream-colored couch, obviously expensive. There was low glass table in front of me, and an identical couch on the other side. Bland landscape paintings covered the off-white walls, and pair of large oak double doors occupied the far wall. To the side of that was a large wood desk, a PC sitting on it and humming quietly, though there was no one in the very comfy-looking desk chair behind it.

I stared for a moment, then did what I was trained to do. I snooped. A few quick strides took me across the room, and another around the desk and into the chair. The PC was on its lock screen, asking for a password. Fuck. There were literally billions of possibilities, and I didn't have any tools, backup, or even an idea of the owner's personality to take a stab at a guess of my own. The desk didn't have any drawers in it, but I suppose that was just as well as the double doors swung open just then, and a forgettably pretty young woman walked through. A little taller than average, maybe around 5'5" or 5'5" without the low heels she wore, she was brown-haired and had a slightly paler than average complexion. She was attractive, but not enough to stick in your mind.

She smiled amiably, seeming unbothered by seeing me in what I presumed to be her chair. "Hello, there," she said. "Mr. Reaper will see you now."

"Mr… Reaper?" I asked. "As in…"

"The Grim Reaper, yes," she responded, the smile remaining in place. "As you may imagine, he is _quite_ busy, so if you wouldn't mind." At the last, she pulled the door she had come through wider, her body language obviously indicating she wanted me to get a move one.

"Right," I said slowly. "I'll just… go then." I stood and walked through the door, into a spacious office. The walls were painted the same off-white as the waiting room, though the wall directly across was glass. The view out the window took my breath away. It was Earth. And the Moon. Wherever we were, I could see my entire fucking world from its window. That, more than anything else, truly convinced me I was dead. Something about the shock, and the fact that I had never seen anything like it so that my subconscious couldn't dream something like that up made me realize this was all real. I figured nothing else would shock me, but then I saw who sat behind the massive marble slab that I supposed served as a desk. A skeleton. A skeleton garbed in a very nice business suit. Savile Row, if I wasn't mistaken. What? I was a spy. It paid to know when the guy you were tailing could afford nice clothes.

The skeleton got up and came around the desk, holding its hand up for shaking. I know that bare skulls are always grinning, but somehow I got the impression it actually was smiling. "Hello there!" it said. "My name's Grim Reaper, but you can just call me Grim." I shook his hand, struck dumb by the absurdity of the situation. "Now, lets get down to brass tacks! Have a seat, have a seat!" He gestured towards another of the nice, ergonomic desk chairs sitting in front of the desk.

"What… the absolute fuck," I finally got out.

I still had the impression that the damnable skeleton was smiling. "Confusion is perfectly understandable, after all, the mortal mind isn't exactly built to be capable of comprehending life after death!" he said brightly. "That's where I come in, to ease the transition."

"No, I, uh, I got that bit. Surprisingly, I'm not having a particularly difficult time processing that. Guess working around death for years helps with that. No, I just expected you to be more, well… Grim Reaper-y."

He chuckled. "What, with the robes and the scythe and the doom and gloom? I pull that act with some of the real shitbags that come through here, but you were a decent guy in a dirty line of work. It needed to be done, so I don't hold it against you."

I'm not gonna lie. I was more than a little worried about that. I had been Army, than CIA. I had done, and seen, some nasty shit. I had killed people. I wasn't proud of it, but some people needed dirt naps, and I was the one to pull the trigger. I didn't regret it either. But yeah, my actions had had me a little worried about my afterlife after I, y'know, died. How's the song go? The wrong side of heaven, but the righteous side of hell. Shit, I had loved Five Finger Death Punch. But I digress. "So, no hell," I said.

Grim chuckled again. "No, no hell. Could be heaven, if that's what you choose. But you do have options, some of which you might find entertaining."

I was a nerd. I had always enjoyed stupid isekai reincarnation stories in anime and the like, and possibilities of something like that was enticing to say the least. "Go on."

"Well, as I'm sure you just thought of, knowing your interests, I could set you up to be reincarnated into another world…"

I cut him off. "I'll take it."

Grim didn't look surprised. "Alright, then!" he said. "Right now I have a spot open in the Harry Potter universe…"

"With or without Cursed Child and the Fantastic Beasts movies?" I interrupted once more.

Grim somehow made his skull look offended. "Without, of course! That hogwash tainted a perfectly wonderful series!"

"Good," I said. "I'll take it."

Grim seemed mildly taken aback at my snap decision. "Are you sure you want to decide that quickly?" he asked. "I have more options."

"My gut says Harry Potter, and my gut is rarely wrong."

"Right, then. Let's get cracking. Strip and get up on the table."

"What."

"Come on, then," the Grim Reaper said. "Off with the clothes, up with your ass."

"... Why?" I asked.

"Because I said so, and I am, after all, the personification of Death itself."

"... Fine." I stripped and hopped up on the marble slab. The thought occurred to me that the slab seemed as much like a sacrificial stone as a desk, but fuck it. I was already dead, and Grim seemed trustworthy. Or at least as trustworthy as Death could be. Once I was on the slab, Grim handed me a mirror.

"First, how do you look?" he asked.

I stared into the mirror, taking stock of my appearance. I looked as I had in life. Five foot seven, brown hair, brown eyes. Ears a little bigger than normal, nose a little smaller. Narrow lips, moderately high cheekbones, narrow face. Not amazingly handsome, but certainly not ugly either. Rather like Grim's secretary, actually. Attractive, but not memorable. "I look fine," I said. "What does this have to do with my new life?"

"What's the point of a new life if you don't get to customize it?" he explained. "Happy with your looks carrying over?"

"Sure."

"Right. Sit up." I sat up, swinging my legs over the edge of the slab so I sat facing him. He was holding a clipboard and a pen. "Muggle or magical?"

"Magical, of course."

"So you're a wizard in your new life, excellent," he said.

"Technically, I'd be a warlock since I got power by bargaining with a higher power," I told him.

Somehow, the bleached skull arched an eyebrow. "Smartass. Next question. Nationality?"  
"American."

"You sure? All of the good stuff goes down in England, after all."

"You're telling me Death, who's giving out new lives in fantasylands, can't work things so an American warlock winds up at Hogwarts?"

"Of course I _can_. It's just more paperwork. Smartass," he responded.

"Primal force of the universe."

"Is that an insult?"

"Best I could do. Seems like a bad idea to call Death an asshole."

"Probably right."

"Any more questions?"

"One more. Do you want your memories?"

I looked at Death flatly. "You have to ask?"

Grim chuckled. "Message received. And y'know what, since I like you, I'm going to give you a Boon."

"A Boon?" I asked.

"An advantage, magic, physical, mental or spiritual. Most people in your position choose an eidetic memory or deeper magic reserves, something like that," he explained.

"I want to be a Metamorphagus."

"Another gut feeling?"

"You know it."

"Granted," Grim said. "Right then, now that's all taken care of I'll shuffle you off this immortal coil and into your life."

"Just like that?" I asked.

"Yup," he said, waving a skeletal hand jauntily. "Bye!"


End file.
